


Like the Man I Know I'm Not

by WildnessBecomesYou



Series: Music is Not the Food of Love, but the Messenger [9]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Aziraphale doesn't get sad he gets ANGRY, M/M, Self-Loathing, Songfic, crowley knows how to deal with this tho, established relationship if you squint, rating mostly for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 14:10:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19358596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildnessBecomesYou/pseuds/WildnessBecomesYou
Summary: Turn off the lights, turn off the lightsTurn on the charm for me, tonightI've got my heavy heart to hold me downOnce it falls apart, my head's in the cloudsSo I'm taking every chance I gotLike the man I know I'm notAziraphale succumbs to some self-loathing to the tune of Panic! at the Disco.





	Like the Man I Know I'm Not

**Author's Note:**

> Another songfic, this time with Angst! 
> 
> (don't worry I'm incapable of making anything not Soft it's not a sad ending)
> 
> If you tilt your head and squint, they're already dating. Song is Turn Off the Lights by Panic! at the Disco. 
> 
> <3

Aziraphale, as we well know, is not an angel who likes to do things quickly. He savors tastes, he relishes routine and craftsmanship, and being a being of infinite time, he sees no point in rushing. 

Which made the realization he was currently having all the more disarming. And the self loathing hit him like, for lack of a better phrase, a shit-ton of bricks. 

He wanted to scream, wanted to rail against something, but that wouldn’t be very angelic, and he was already a shit angel. 

So, he supposed, perhaps it wouldn’t be the worst thing to be a little worse? 

It was a few hours later when Crowley found him, and he wasn’t doing anything productive with his anger; he hadn’t gone to a gym, or started a sparring match at a local fencing club. Instead, he stood panting in the middle of his (recently reset) book shop. His hands were balled in fists. His face was slightly red with anger. The spiraled columns of books were on the floor, actually on the floor, and a right mess at that— and it looked to Crowley like some books had been flung at walls and actually bounced hard enough to land back in the middle of the room. 

“Woah, angel,” he said, trying for levity and failing, “something go down?” 

“It’s none of your business,” Aziraphale snapped, and it was not couched with any affection. He watched it sting Crowley, and yet Crowley tried again. 

“D’you want to…talk about it?”

Aziraphale had wanted Crowley to show up, to be fair. But now he was annoyed at the demon’s presence. He wanted the demon out.

Maybe permanently, because he deserved that, didn’t he. Lose his only friend, that would do it, that sounded right. 

“No, certainly not with _you_.” 

It came out viciously, with enough force to make Crowley pull his head back and blink in surprise. The demon recovered after a moment. 

“I’ll be on my way, then,” he spat back, pulling his jacket straighter, flicking his wrist against the bottom so it flared out as he left Aziraphale’s (recently ruined) book shop. 

“Oh—“ Aziraphale stuttered over words for a moment after the bell dinged to inform him that he was, again, alone. He settled on the word he wanted. “Fuck!” 

He threw another book. The binding on this one came apart, and it somehow made him madder, breaking that book like every other thing he’d ever touched. So he threw another, and another, and kept throwing until he threw a paperweight that absolutely shattered. 

And then he felt bad. He felt guilty, and sad, and damn his conscience, he’d hurt his friend. 

He said “fuck” again, but it was much quieter this time, his fists unclenching and shoulders sagging forwards. He wanted to be reckless. He tried to pull that feeling back, that fuel, but he couldn’t make it _big_ enough to act on. 

Another failure in a long list, he supposed. With a wave of his hand, his bookshop was back the way it had been, and the paperweight was in his hand. He retreated to the back room and fell into a chair with a huff. 

The paperweight was still in his hand. He ran his fingers over it, inspecting for little cracks, and found none. He felt a great deal of relief— more when he realized the paperweight had been a gift from Crowley, a spadix of a peace lily encased in lightly tinted glass. It nearly glowed in his hand, and Aziraphale brought it to his forehead. 

He needed to go apologize, but he also wanted to figure out what this growing feeling in his chest was. 

It took him an hour, and then he was bolting off the chair, cursing himself for wasting time, taking just a moment to set down the gift carefully. 

He needed to see Crowley, needed that company, he never should have turned him away, stupid— 

There were many things he said to himself on the way to Crowley’s flat, and not any of them particularly kind. 

When Crowley opened the door, he barely had time to say “And what do _you_ want?” before Aziraphale was on him, clacking their teeth together in a desperate attempt at contact. Crowley stumbled backwards, hands grasping for purchase against the angel. Aziraphale kicked the door closed, turning just long enough for Crowley to gasp and expel a few words. 

“Angel, what—“ 

“Need—“ Aziraphale cut himself off. He kissed Crowley again, insistently, and the demon wasn’t fighting him, which was a nice surprise. No, Crowley was dragging Aziraphale backwards by the lapels, wildly searching for something that would give him a little stability. 

Aziraphale felt wild, and that was good.

Crowley’s back hit the wall rather violently, dislodging him from Aziraphale’s grip on his hips, bones in their faces bumping awkwardly and a little painfully. His fingers had gotten a little crushed, but that was probably for the best. 

Crowley tried pulling back. “What the—“ Aziraphale tried to get him to stop talking. “—fuck are you—“ Why was the demon still talking? “—doing?” 

“No time.” 

His words were muffled against Crowley’s lips, and when Crowley bit a warning, it only spurred him further. But Crowley pushed at his chest and grumbled a low, “Aziraphale, stop.” 

Aziraphale might hate himself, but he wasn’t _evil_. 

He pulled back with a huff. 

“I find you in a trashed book shop and you tell me to leave. Then you come here and— well.” Aziraphale didn’t miss the wicked smirk, even if it was brief. “Rather more seems my style.” 

Aziraphale grumbled something, and Crowley poked his chest. He didn’t react, and Crowley poked his chest, and he grumbled again, just a bit louder. “You’re not the only one allowed to hate yourself.” 

Crowley’s hands dropped momentarily, and Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, convinced he’d somehow managed to fuck this up _more_. 

Just what he deserved, really. 

“That’s— seriously?”

He let his eyes open, and Crowley was staring at him. But it wasn’t an angry glare, or a pitying look, it was almost amused, almost curious. “I suppose I should have realized that when you kicked me out,” he murmured, his hand returning to the lapels of Aziraphale’s coat, smoothing out the now-rumpled fabric. “You want to talk about it?”

“Not particularly,” Aziraphale half-growled, ducking in again, nearly screaming in frustration when Crowley pushed again and ‘ah-ah-ah’d at him. “Crowley.”

“We don’t have to talk, but hate-fucking is not actually a good coping mechanism.”

Aziraphale blinked. “I don’t…hate you— did I give you that impre—“ 

“No,” Crowley said as he slipped out from between the wall and the angel, “but it’s still hate-fucking if you hate yourself.” 

Aziraphale let his head hit the wall with a grunt. Crowley moved to the kitchen, and appliances whirred to life with the sound of something that had never whirred to life before. “You got a migraine yet?” he called behind him. 

Aziraphale turned. “What?” His head did actually hurt. 

Crowley poked his head out of the kitchen, pointing to the couch as a direction. Aziraphale did as he was told. “I’m a demon, angel, self-loathing is kind of my _thing_.” 

Aziraphale sat down with a huff and worried at his hands. Crowley plopped down with a mug of cocoa, placing it gently in Aziraphale’s fingers. “Let out your wings, let’s go,” he directed, no trace of smugness or teasing in his voice. 

They didn’t talk, but by the time Crowley got sleepy with wing grooming, Aziraphale didn’t hate himself quite as much.


End file.
